


You've Never Cared

by Nines35711



Series: Never Cared [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Child Neglect, Fights, Gen, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, Mild Language, Poetry, Underage Smoking, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-07
Updated: 2018-11-07
Packaged: 2019-08-20 07:29:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16551572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nines35711/pseuds/Nines35711
Summary: They never cared. They never tried. They ruined his life. It was their fault.





	You've Never Cared

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING/DISCLAIMER: I am not a victim of abuse or neglect. This work is purely fictional and nothing else. I do not expect anyone to relate to this story. Those that do, it's fine. Be warned for: abuse, neglect, bad school systems, prostitution of a minor, alcoholism, smoking, and vomiting.

He had issues.

He was snotty, angry, and eager to fight.

His mother decided to stop caring when he turned six.

He smoked and drank and passed out on the weekends.

He got into fights and woke up with dried blood in his hair.

It wasn’t his fault. They let him become this hollow shell.

It wasn’t his fault. They didn’t stop him when he started.

It was their fault. They gave him the cigarettes.

It was their fault. They stocked the alcohol.

It was their fault. It was not his fault.

They did this. They ruined his life.

Oh gods, he’d ruined his life.

 

_ He had issues.  _ He was taken to therapy when he was young, but he never understood what was happening. The therapist tried getting him to talk, to draw, to write. She tried asking him how he felt with his dad no longer there. He was stubborn and she eventually gave up. He never went back to see her.

 

_ He was snotty, angry, and eager to fight. _ He wanted attention, and he wanted it badly. He’d give an attitude to his teachers so they pulled him out of class. He cried at home until his mom made him spaghetti and unfrozen meatballs. She would put a movie on, usually something violent. It made him feel tough. He would hit other kids in recess to feel like those guys in the movies. They were called the good guys. He got called a bully.

 

_ His mother decided to stop caring when he turned six. _ She would leave every night and come back early in the morning. He got yelled at when he burned his hand trying to cook for himself. He went hungry and stole food from other kids when the gnawing pain got too strong. He was disciplined for stealing from students. She went to meetings with the principal high on something, or if he was lucky, drunk. The problem wasn’t fixed.

 

_ He smoked and drank and passed out on the weekends. _ In middle school, he got ahold of a teacher’s cigarettes. He smoked on the bus, got them confiscated. He stole another pack. The alcohol cabinet was always open. He drank and drank until he was drunk on the floor. He always came to school on Monday with a hangover. That became his best friend.

 

_ He got into fights and woke up with dried blood in his hair. _ He went out at night looking for some asshole who would fight him if provoked. Thankfully, there were several of these people at his school. They’d meet near the river and pummel each other into the rocks while people cheered them on. He’d stumble home and pass out. The pillowcase was always sticky with his blood when he woke up. His hair was crusty and stiff.

 

_ It wasn’t his fault. They let him become this hollow shell. _ He felt tired and empty. Every sign pointed to the fact that it wasn’t his fault. He told himself that everytime a new bruise formed, everytime the stains on his pillow got darker. It was their fault. His mom, his dead dad, his teachers and the principals. They did this.

 

_ It wasn’t his fault. They didn’t stop him when he started. _ They just told him no and sent him back to class. She offered him a drink instead of taking the whiskey away. No one told him why hitting was bad. No one carried him home when he got beat half to death. They should have done something. They should have done more.

 

_ It was their fault. They gave him the cigarettes. _ They offered him one when he acted more mature, lied about his age. They touched him and offered him a pack for a bit of a show. He agreed everytime, even let them take pictures for a second pack.

 

_ It was their fault. They stocked the alcohol. _ She had a drinking problem, she told him over and over. She had a drinking problem and she kept fueling it. She stocked the alcohol cabinet with twice as much as one alcoholic could ever need. She offered him some when he was nine, ten, eleven. Every year he got one beer for his birthday. That was the best present she could think of.

 

_ It was their fault. It was not his fault. _ He was told his grades needed to be higher, he needed a better attitude. It wasn’t his fault, he told them. The work was shit anyway. They told him he should be better. He hated it, hated them. He scratched it into the desks and lockers. It was painted on the bathroom stalls. It was all their fault.

 

_ They did this. They ruined his life. _ They gave him all the cigarettes and the alcohol and the bloodlust. They told him to be better. They took pictures of him. They gave him boring work. They did this to him.

 

_ Oh gods, he’d ruined his life. _ He was brought into the police department at four in the morning. They asked him questions, asked about his mom, his dad (the dead fuck), his school. He ignored them and threw up in the jail cell. A man came in and sat next to him, tried to get him to talk. Eventually, he placed an arm around him, and he began to cry.

 

_ You never cared, so stop pretending you do.  _ That’s what he told his mom when she picked him up at five AM. She ignored it and took him home. He was put in his room for a while. He threw things, screamed, said he hated her, said he wanted to die. She came back and offered him a slice of pizza. He accidentally threw it up an hour later, with her rubbing his back as he hunched over the toilet. He was kept home for a month. During that time, the house was cleared of alcohol. He wasn’t allowed to leave the house at night. He told her over and over, while he was trembling in bed, that he hated her. That she should stop pretending. She didn't stop.

**Author's Note:**

> Please only provide constructive criticism or grammatical/spelling corrections. I will not respond to hate. Thank you for reading.
> 
> To contact me privately, please email me at jpruger2003@gmail.com. I will respond as quickly as possible. If I do not respond within three days, please resend the email as it's likely that I did not receive it by then.


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